I’ve kissed a lot of frogs and not one of them has turned into a prince.
As if the act of my sexual experience,
My search for love, needs the sheetlike covering
Of a line from fairy tale romance.
I didn’t seek out any frogs, I simply discovered they were amphibious
When, after running my hand up their thigh,
I find everything elongated, including their tongue
Reaching to score, once more, in their lilypad-hopping lives.
I paused to think before moving closer,
And I realized:
If it smells like a toad
And it looks like a toad
And it ribbets sweet nothings like a toad,
Then most likely this love will croak like a toad,
Beat up and smooched on the side of the road.
I’ve reached a climactic truth,
Longer lasting than any dick.
A prince should feel right inside,
And not just like a prick.